Chapter 12
THE NEXT MORNING, ALBA, ROSE, and I pack into the car, heading to breakfast with Santa.
It’s an annual Christmas event put on at the fire hall.
We all came downstairs wearing red: me in a soft wool sweater that fits like a glove, Rose in a long red dress that goes down to her ankles and Alba in a bright red flannel.
The three of us looked like we planned our outfits to match, but none of us bothered changing.
Who’s playing Santa Claus these days then? I ask, remembering old Mr. Leblanc, a retired firefighter who used to don the costume every year. But he was ancient when I was a teenager.
Alba gives me a sideways smile, peeking from her side of the truck.
I’m not telling you. She says it in a singsong voice.
Who is it?
She’s fully grinning now. Take a guess.
The two of us burst out cackling at the same time and I can hear Rose giggling from the back seat.
Tell me it’s not, I beg her in between rasping laughs.
But true to her word, she says nothing. I use the rest of the car ride to make a plan. I was bumbling like an idiot at the parade last night, flustered and barely able to hold a conversation. Knowing ahead of time that he’ll be here this morning means I can prepare myself.
And I want to have some fun today.
Fifteen minutes later I’m grinning like a fiend, as I scan my eyes across the fire hall.
And there he is.
Alistair is sitting in a red velvet suit, the fake white beard doing little to distract from how delicious he looks. His arms are stretching the fabric of the sleeves and it makes everything in me tighten.
A young girl, probably five or so, is climbing down from his lap when I feel his gaze snap to mine.
He always seems to find me, even in crowded places.
He looks incredibly irritated and slightly embarrassed, as if he doesn’t want me seeing him giving literal toys to children.
But I can understand he might feel a little silly in the Santa suit, so I don’t take any offence to his annoyance.
I’m sure my feral grin isn’t helping matters, either.
Eyes blazing, he mouths a single word in my direction.
Don’t.
I feel the smile pull so tight across my cheeks that it almost hurts, as he looks away. In an instant, our dynamic from the parade has shifted. Finally, after all this taunting from him, it’s my turn to make him struggle to string a sentence together.
Another kid—a little boy this time—moves to stand in front of where Alistair is sitting, too shy to engage with him directly.
Even behind the white fuzz of the fake beard, I can see the blush creep up Alistair’s neck, which is turning pink.
He knows I’m still watching him, but I think he’s trying to ignore me.
I let my gaze freely roam over him. He speaks quietly to the boy and his mother.
If I’m being honest, it’s a lovely, pure moment.
My thoughts are anything but.
In my sea of churning thoughts last night, I couldn’t stop myself from acknowledging certain things.
That, along with his pine-green eyes, his dark beard and his freckled skin all make him insanely handsome.
He has nice hands. I’m not even sure when I noticed his hands, but I noticed.
And that voice? Yum. I wondered how that accent would sound in low, sultry tones and actually gave myself goosebumps.
I could barely let myself think about the other things: that he’s always bopping around the island helping people, that he seems genuinely curious about everyone and everything, and how well-liked he is here. And that is not an easy feat for a come-from-away in Cape Breton.
The lightness in me today makes me feel impish. I want to tease him back, to find a way to really rile him, especially now that I can tell he feels rattled to see me here, seeing him in his red Santa suit.
I scan the crowd to find Alba. She’s sipping on what I would guess is a mimosa and staring right at me, her eyes mischievous. When I walk over, she says, Cousin, you are in so much shit.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, I quip, but I’m unable to keep the giggle from my voice.
See, I told you he was hot, she adds, as Rose appears to her left and nods excitedly in agreement.
I never said he wasn’t. But he’s been teasing me since I got here and now it’s time for revenge. I waggle my eyebrows at her.
Something passes across Alba’s face that I can’t quite put my finger on, that look again of something like relief. She swallows another sip of her drink before motioning in Alistair’s direction, Well then, go and get him back.
I know that what I’m about to do is insane. This is something only twenty-year-old Florence would have attempted, with her confidence that bordered on arrogance. I’m not sure at thirty-two if I can pull it off, but I’m going to try.
I wait for the line of children to slow down.
Many of them, having already made their pleas to Santa, are now slathering their waffles and pancakes in sticky maple syrup.
A thought bubbles up: volunteering to bake here next year would be fun.
I’m not sure where it comes from, so I shove it aside, and turn my mind back to what I’m about to do.
Alistair looks like he might be getting up from his seat, so I make a beeline for him. Before he can register what’s happening—and before I can feel embarrassed about it—I sit down in his lap.
Hi Santa, I say, grinning like an idiot and trying to use my most innocent voice. Or is it Father Christmas since you’re Scottish? Or wait, is that just what the English call him?
What the fuck are you doing? He growls in my ear, though he sounds more like he’s caught off guard than actually angry at me settling into his lap. And probably also trying to keep his voice low, so as not to attract the eyes of everyone in here.
I can’t help the cackle that erupts out of me. My insides feel neon, like they’re radiating from within me and illuminating that glow right onto my face.
I’m coming to tell you what I want for Christmas. I look right at him when I say it and I can see the wheels in his head turning, wondering what the hell I’m up to, no doubt.
I thought you weren’t really a fan of Christmas, if I remember your exact words correctly.
His teeth are clenched, and I know he’s trying to throw me off my game.
But I won’t be deterred today. I want to really, really vex him.
You know, this perfectly nice man who dresses up as Santa Claus and hangs up community Christmas lights and builds accessible ramps?
Yeah, that’s the one. I try not to think of what an asshole this makes me.
Actually, I love Christmas. Didn’t you get my letters? I say, doing my best to pout. He seems exasperated by this, which only eggs me on more.
I get a lot of letters, he says through gritted teeth, as his eyes dart around to make sure no one is watching us.
Sighing, he asks, Now what is it you want, Fast Florence?
Some thrill-seeking adventure, I’m sure.
Then adds under his breath, What I should bring you is a copy of the Drivers Handbook.
I ignore the jab—he’s playing right into my hands.
Well Santa, I’m in need of a new electronic device. He makes a puzzled face, looking at me skeptically from the corner of his eyes, not sure where this is going. You know, I say, holding my hands about six inches apart. It’s about this big, it vibrates—
Jesus Christ, he seethes, but there’s mirth coming through his voice too when he asks, What are you trying to do to me, woman?
His face is so priceless that I can’t even get control of myself enough to finish my joke. But I stop laughing when he says, When are you coming over?
I freeze. What, one vibrator joke and this guy thinks I’m just going to come over?
My body goes rigid in his lap, and I must make a face, because he says, I mean, when are you coming over to see your house? Not, when are you coming over? He says, using a suggestive tone for emphasis, before quickly adding in a whisper, Pervert.
My heart is racing for another reason now, as the anxiety washes over me. Damn him, for not letting me have the upper hand for two glorious seconds. I swallow.
I’m not sure, I—
Bring Alba with you, if you’d like. I’ll be around this afternoon after this is cleared up, he motions to the room full of children.
I feel slightly self-conscious that I’m still in his lap, not wanting to think what people would say.
But thankfully everyone is too engaged with their sugary breakfasts to notice.
When he finishes motioning around the room, his hand returns and he puts it on my waist. I feel myself relax into the touch, sinking in like a familiar, favourite couch, which I don’t think is the reaction either of us expects.
I peer up at him—my god even sitting down he’s tall—and I know I’m diving into dangerous waters here.
He’s not smiling, but seems to be waiting patiently for an answer.
And I realize from the expression on his face that he wants me to come over.
I wonder if it’s to reassure me he hasn’t completely upended the place, like he wants to prove to me that he’s not such a bad guy.
That he’s not some kind of villain to me.
Okay, we’ll come, I say. I bite my lip, feeling nervous. Maybe three o’clock?
He nods, still not smiling, then says, That works. Now please, and I am asking nicely ‘Just Florence,’ get off my lap before I’m labelled the town pedo.
I laugh and can’t help but throw one more line his way.
But I didn’t tell you what else I wanted for Christmas, I say, batting my eyelashes, my tone filled with mock seduction.
He rolls his eyes at me, but gently helps me get down from his lap and back on solid ground. I saunter off to find Alba and Rose, trying not to think too hard about what I’ve agreed to do this afternoon.